The Bad Day
by LouBlue
Summary: Joanlock. Joan Watson is having a very bad day. She thinks she's the only one, but quickly discovers Sherlock is having a worse one, for reasons that catch her off guard. Lots of feels with hurt/comfort.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** **: Hello all, first time Elementary fic, so go gently with me.**

 **I'm always intrigued by unique love stories and the story of Holmes and Watson has always been a unique one in all the literature, one that transcends simple romantic love. In the original material, they were two men, but there was still a romance to their devotion to one another. You can see it in the latest Sherlock movies with RDJ and Jude Law. These two men love each other in a way that doesn't have a traditional interpretation. There is a domesticity to their interactions that speaks of a great intimacy that transcends simple sexual attraction, and so it goes with Elementary's version of the iconic duo. Of course, with Watson being female, there is potentially an easier path to the traditional romance scenario… but would that take away something of the uniqueness of their relationship? It's such an interesting question to answer and arguably, done right, neither path may necessarily be wrong.**

 **Now, having said all that, I just had the urge to write this little two shot to explore the breadth and depth of Holmes and Watson's feelings for one another. When does being important to one another become co-dependence? Is that a continually moving line that requires relentless diligence to stop it shifting from something that grants them both with something more, to where they might potentially be less because of their need for one another? How do you keep the benefits mutual and not have one giving more than the other? Is that even a realistic goal for any human relationship? How do you even define equal when two parties have different roles to play in a relationship? All these things are thoughts the Holmes/Watson relationship inspires me to think about. Whether I've answered them in any tangible way is up for interpretation by the reader, but maybe the very fact that it is so hard to pin down the essence of their relationship is what keeps us so intrigued with this duo, even now.**

 **So, you've waded through all the above guff – well done! May as well crack on with the actual story now, eh?**

 **THE BAD DAY**

To the world you may be one person,

But to one person, you may be the world.

~Bill Wilson~

 **CHAPTER ONE**

Joan Watson moved her weight from one foot to the other, doing the time-honored dance of attempting to ward off the cold. She stood on the street corner, looking up and down the New York streets and waiting on her ride. The street was quiet thanks to the late hour. Well, it was more of an early hour, at least two in the morning by her reckoning. Joan didn't know the exact time because she was currently sans a watch which was only the tip of the iceberg that was this seemingly never-ending bad day. She glanced up at the car which pulled into the street, but didn't pay it anymore attention until it pulled up directly in front of her. Her eyebrows shot up as Sherlock climbed out of the driver's seat. "I thought you'd just send me a taxi, not come yourself."

Sherlock didn't say anything, just walked up to her with a great sense of purpose, and came to stand directly in front of her, staring at her fiercely, lips pressed together in a tight line.

Joan held up a warning hand to him. "Don't even start on me, Sherlock. I don't want to hear about how you driving halfway across the city was a huge inconvenience at this late hour. I didn't ask you to come personally. I just rang to make sure you'd be home, so that when I got there, you'd have money to pay the cab fare."

Sherlock just kept staring at her, uncharacteristically silent, eyes boring into her.

Joan let out a long-suffering breath. "Seriously, Sherlock, just don't. I've been up since three am this morning with that call out we got, we worked all day and into the night on the case, then I had to rush home, pack like a crazy person for my conference trip to Vienna. I still think I'm going to make it at this point, but then I get the cab driver from hell who takes me totally the wrong way to JFK airport, claiming it's a shortcut, but we run into all of this roadworks and I miss my flight. I have a yelling match with the guy, because apparently living with you has rubbed off on me, despite my best efforts, and that's how I'm dealing with conflict resolution these days. So, the guy dumps me on the street and drives off, I go to call another cab to get home, but then the next thing I know I'm being knocked to the ground and some jerk is stealing my purse, plus my watch and phone. The thief runs off into the night, and now I'm phoneless and penniless and sprawled out on a New York street. I manage to get a passerby to take pity on me and he let me use his phone, so I called you to make sure you were home, with cab fare, which I think I've already said, but I'm saying it again, just in case I didn't." Joan was actually a little breathless after that tirade. Her breathing was uneven as she looked up at the still unmoving, unblinking Sherlock. "Today has been a bad day," she announced more loudly than she'd intended, but her frustration had been building up in her for hours now, and it felt good to release it.

Sherlock finally blinked, but it was almost in slow motion, which was a little unnerving. When he opened his eyes again, he was back to staring at her. He swallowed hard. "Do you need me to carry your luggage?" he asked hoarsely.

Joan was surprised by the rasp in his voice, but then, he'd probably been sleeping when she'd rung. He'd barely spoken beyond saying her name when she'd called him. Joan held up a set of handles which was once attached to her suitcase. "Did I mention the guy also went for my luggage?" she asked flatly. "We decided on joint custody in the end. He got the case, I got the handles."

Sherlock very carefully took the handles from her.

"Thanks," said Joan acerbically. "I was getting tired dragging those things around all night." It wasn't Sherlock's fault that she'd missed her flight and been mugged, but it felt good to have someone to take it out on, even if it was unfairly.

Sherlock walked over to the car and opened the passenger side door.

Joan followed him and slipped into the seat, Sherlock closing the door carefully behind her. She watched him walk round and climb into the driver's seat. Joan's gaze wandered over the interior of the car. "Who's Lexus is this?"

"An acquaintance's," said Sherlock dismissively as he started the engine.

Joan was trying to think of any acquaintances Sherlock had that she knew of who'd be willing to lend him a car, but then was too tired to continue thinking or doing anything else other than just sitting there and trying to get some circulation back in her body. As though Sherlock could read her mind, he reached for the car heater and turned it up to its full capacity. Joan sighed and settled back in her seat, feeling the exhaustion really threaten to overwhelm her now that she was sitting down and starting to get warm. They drove in silence, which Joan was glad about. She didn't want to hear one of Sherlock's rants about street crime or taxi cabs or anything really. It was her turn to be disgruntled at the universe and she didn't feel like sharing the annoyance with anyone else. She'd earned it tonight. It was hers alone to feel. As she fought against falling asleep in the car, Joan was conscious of Sherlock's gaze continually on her via the rear vision mirror. She caught his gaze multiple times in the mirror, and each time his eyes would flick away, attention back on the road. Joan couldn't help but feel he was carefully constructing a diatribe on her being lax about her personal safety. She gave him a warning look in the mirror. Tonight was not the night for a lecture and her expression let him know that.

Joan glanced at the car clock as they pulled up in front of the brownstone and saw it was after three o'clock in the morning. Great, she'd now been up for twenty-four frustrating hours. She stepped out of the car and headed up the steps in front of the house, waiting for Sherlock to open the door with his key, which he did, letting her walk in ahead of him. Joan made an immediate beeline for the stairs, not bothering with turning any lights on. "I need to get some sleep," she announced tiredly as she took each step with a heavy foot fall. "Then tomorrow I need to get my life back and cancel cards, get new ones, organize a new driver's license, contact the conference organizers and know I won't be presenting my paper—" Joan stopped halfway up the stairs, feeling suddenly guilty that she was being so self-centered. She turned back around to see Sherlock looking up at her from the bottom of the stairs. Joan grimaced down at him. "Thank you for coming and getting me, Sherlock. I'm sorry for my attitude, I don't mean to be ungrateful. It's just that it's been a ba—"

"A bad day," he interrupted her tightly. "I know."

Joan tried to manage a smile, but was too tired to be certain she pulled it off. "I'll see you in the morning." She stifled a large yawn with one hand. "I mean later in the morning, much later."

Sherlock gave a short nod of his head by way of a response.

Joan turned back around and headed up the rest of the stairs. She grabbed a spare set of pajamas and changed into them, not bothering with showering. That was for the morning. Joan ignored the aches and pains she could feel creeping up on her from where she'd been knocked over. That was something else to take care of tomorrow. Right now the only thing that mattered was her warm bed which was going to help her forget this day ever happened. She literally fell into it, pulling the covers up and falling asleep within what felt like seconds. Joan slept a dark, dreamless sleep that she only half-surfaced from briefly when her knee complained about being in one position for too long. She'd fallen on it when the mugger had pushed her over. Joan moved restlessly in her sleep, trying to relieve the discomfort. As she rolled over, her sleep-blurred eyes focused on a dark shape standing over her. Joan gave a gasp of fear, immediately sitting up in bed, heart pounding. She blinked rapidly, attempting to focus on who it was. "Sherlock!" she hissed. "What are you doing in my bedroom? Boundaries, remember?"

"My apologies, Watson," he said stiffly, looking down at her. "I did not mean to startle you."

"Then here's a tip," said Joan, a little flustered as she pushed back her sleep-tousled hair, "don't stand over sleeping women. We find it creepy and weird." She shook her head in an attempt to clear it. "What time is it?"

"5:07." Sherlock paused. "AM," he finished off, obviously thinking she might be a little confused.

Joan looked him up and down. "What's wrong? What do you need me for?"

Sherlock stood staring down at her. His whole body was stiff, standing at rigid attention, his hands open and closing into tight fists, the handles of her suitcase still in one of those hands. Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it. He opened it again, then closed it again, all without saying anything.

Joan looked up at him expectantly. "Sherlock, what is it?"

He turned sharply on his heel and then marched towards her door, stopping at the last moment to wheel around and stalk right back to her bedside with great determination. Sherlock stood over her again, mouth open, but still no words coming out. His face was flushed, as though he was experiencing some great surge of emotion, eyes darting back and forward over her face, seemingly memorizing every single curve and line. Sherlock made a strangled little sound, and then closed his mouth with an audible click.

Joan shook her head at him. "Sherlock, seriously, I can't believe I'm going to say this to you of all people, but you have to use your words. This goldfish impersonation isn't helping me understand what is going on with you."

"You're tired," he said abruptly. "You should sleep after your ordeal." With that, he turned away again, marching for her door.

"So, you woke me to tell me to get more sleep?" asked Joan in consternation. She groaned and flopped back onto her pillow. "Tell me this is something I don't have to worry about with you, Sherlock. At least not right now."

Sherlock didn't stop in his rapid retreat from her room. "Sleep, Watson. We shall converse further in the morning."

"Great," sighed Joan tiredly, "can't wait." She loved being in Sherlock's life, sharing the brownstone together, and everything that entailed, even the frustrating parts. It's just that she was discovering that a good night's sleep really helped with dealing with some of Sherlock's quirkier idiosyncrasies, and she was a long way from getting that tonight. Particularly if Sherlock was going to be intent on waking her every two hours to tell her to get more sleep. Joan rolled over and tried to find a more comfortable position, and promptly fell asleep in the middle of that endeavor.

It was many hours later when she opened her eyes, this time without anyone standing over her, which was a decided bonus. Her blurry gaze focused on the clock on her bedside table and saw it was well past eleven in the morning. Joan let out a long sigh, the events of yesterday and earlier that morning coming back to her in a rush. _Such a bad, bad day_. With a great effort of will, Joan forced herself to sit up, and was made instantly aware of every aching muscle from her mugging. She needed tea, then she'd do an inventory of the damage. Staggering to her feet, Joan limped out of her bedroom and headed down the stairs. The old stairs gave their usual creaks of protest at taking her weight, and today she could commiserate with them. She got to the foot of the stairs and walked into the living room. Joan gave a gasp of surprise at the generalized chaos of the room which greeted her as she did. The side table was upended, books from the bookcase were strewn all over the ground and there was broken glass everywhere from shattered cups, plates and vases. Directly in front of her the TV screen was smashed and tilted at a concerning angle. Her head snapped around to where Sherlock was sitting bolt upright in his favorite chair, hands on his knees, one hand still clutching the handles of her suitcase, as though he'd been sitting there all night. "What happened?" she asked in horror. "Were we broken into?"

"We weren't broken into," said Sherlock sharply.

Joan looked around herself again. "Then… what happened?" she asked, mystified.

"You died."

That earned him another sharp look from her. "What?"

"You died," said Sherlock, his voice strained. "Last night, you died."

Joan chose her next words carefully, keeping her tone low and calming. "Obviously I didn't Sherlock. I'm standing right here." Had he had a bad dream? Joan didn't like to think about other hallucinogenic possibilities, not before they'd talked more.

His tone was clipped, almost clinical. "Austrian Airways Flight 88, departing from JFK airport at 11pm and arriving in Vienna at 805 the next morning, crashed upon takeoff last night. There were no survivors."

Joan blanched and put a hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp of distress at hearing about such a tragic loss of life involving the flight she'd missed.

Sherlock was staring straight ahead as he waved a vague hand towards the TV. "It was all over the news reports. No survivors, that's what they kept saying. Everyone had died." Sherlock finally looked at her, grey eyes full of tortured grief. "I rang your phone, but you didn't pick up. I rang it over and over and over, but you didn't pick up because you were dead." His next words were choked out. "You died, Watson. You died and left me and I don't know how to forgive you for that."

There was so much anguish in his unsteady confession that Joan's first instinct was to simply hug him and reassure him that she wasn't dead, that she was still in his life. "Sherlock," she said in distress, going to take a step towards him.

"Don't move!" he ordered her sternly. Sherlock launched himself from his seat, long strides covering the distance between them in scant seconds. The broken crockery shards crunched under his booted foot as Joan realized she lacked a similar protection with her bare feet. Sherlock was by her side, picking her up into his arms before her naked feet could be damaged by the minefield of broken glass and porcelain. Joan expected Sherlock to carry her back out into the foyer and away from the generalized destruction but instead he seemed rooted to the spot, just holding her in his arms. She met his traumatized gaze. "Sherlock." Joan said his name in barely more than a whisper.

He shook his head at her, mutely warning her that his emotions were threatening to overwhelm them both, lips pressed together in a white line of pain.

Joan supposed she'd known for a long time how much Sherlock needed her, but she'd never properly acknowledged it in any cognizant way. In the beginning he'd resisted her presence, stubbornly clinging to the belief that it was impossible for another person to add anything to his life other than annoyance and intrusion. Fortunately she'd been as pig-headed as he'd been on the subject, and she'd stayed, even when it would have been easy to walk away, she'd stayed. Joan had always thought she understood what that staying meant to someone like Sherlock, a man who'd determinedly made himself into an island that people were allowed to occasionally visit, but never stake any kind of real estate claim to the landscape. Only she had staked a claim. Joan had ignored his dismissals, his threats, his testing of her motives and resolve. And she'd stayed, she'd earned a place on that island. But looking at Sherlock now, seeing the fear in his expression, Joan realized for the first time that she was more than just an inhabitant on the island of his life to him. She'd become part of the infrastructure that kept it afloat. Without her, the ground beneath Sherlock's feet shifted, there was no secure footing for him to find his equilibrium. Joan put a hand to his neck, cupping it. "I'm here," she said huskily, trying to reassure him. "I didn't die. I'm right here, with you." Joan willed him to let go of his fear and accept the reality.

A shudder went through Sherlock's body at her words. He hugged her more tightly to him, burying his face into her neck. Sherlock sucked in a ragged breath against her skin and just held onto her, seemingly incapable of letting her go.

Joan hugged him back, trying to impart reassurance to him through her touch. She wasn't sure how long they stood there, him holding her in his arms, the two of them standing in the middle of a broken room, but it felt like a long time. Joan could just imagine Sherlock's frenzy last night on hearing about the plane crash. He would have been like a wounded animal, lashing out at all and everything. It made her afraid of what he might have done if she hadn't found a way to call. Would Sherlock have gone back to his old painkilling ways? Would he have found a way to stop himself from freefalling without her there? The questions haunted Joan and made her hug him even more tightly.

A knock came on the door. "Hello?"

Joan lifted her head from Sherlock's shoulder and looked over her shoulder towards the door. Sherlock on the other hand didn't move, just kept on holding her.

"Police Officer." There was the sound of the door being pushed open. The uniformed police officer walked into the foyer and then came to an abrupt halt as he came across the man with the barefoot woman in his arms, standing in the middle of what looked like a war zone. The officer immediately put one hand on his gun, and reached out towards Joan with the other. "Ma'am, are you alright?" he asked in a firm but concerned tone.

"Yes," said Joan quickly, aware of how this must look. "I'm fine. There isn't a problem here."

The police officer looked unconvinced. "Sir, do you want to put the woman down?"

"No," said Sherlock without hesitation, head still buried in her neck as he held her even more tightly to him.

"Sir, put the woman down," said the officer more sternly this time, moving slowly towards them, hand tightening on the gun.

Joan stiffened in Sherlock's arms, knowing this situation could spiral out of control very quickly and very badly if she couldn't get either men to listen to her.

She really didn't need another bad day, and Sherlock certainly didn't…

 **A/N** **: And there we have it, folks. Brace for all the real emotional stuff in the next chapter. Really hope you'll join me. Thanks for reading. :D**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N** **: Hey guys, thanks for joining me for this chapter and thank you to all who left a review for me about this story. You're all too kind. I recognized some of my faithful ducklings (you all know how fab I think you are), plus it was great fun to meet a few new readers. It's a great part of posting FF.**

 **So, this chapter, ended up getting quite wordy. Don't know why I was surprised by that. I really shouldn't be. There is a lot of back and forth with Joan and Sherlock, but it was fun stuff to write given how different they are, but also given how much they care about one another.**

 **Hope you enjoy it… (oh, and that it makes sense, that's always good too)**

 **CHAPTER TWO**

Joan kept her voice determinedly calm as she felt the tension in the room starting to increase. "Sherlock, put me down."

"If I do that, you will cut your feet." Sherlock lifted his head and glared at the officer. "She'll cut her feet if I put her down."

"Put me on the sofa," instructed Joan. "I'll be fine there."

Sherlock looked at her uncertainly, like the act of setting her down was somehow a confusing one to him.

The officer's tone was hasher again. "Sir, put the woman down, that's the last time I'm going to say it."

Joan nodded at Sherlock encouragingly. "Sofa, Sherlock, now."

Sherlock grimaced and then walked over to the sofa, glass crunching under his feet once more. He set her gently down on the sofa and Joan immediately smiled apologetically up at the officer. "Sorry, Officer, I know this must look a little strange—"

"Yeah, it does," said the officer tightly. He scanned the room. "What happened here?"

Sherlock straightened up and clasped his hands behind his back. "I was having a bad day," he informed the man in clipped tones.

The officer arched an eyebrow. "And do you have a lot of these bad days, sir?"

"Not usually," said Sherlock coolly, "but I'd received some bad news." His gaze lingered on Joan as she sat on the sofa. "Some traumatic news." Sherlock was back looking at the officer. "I fear I did not handle it very well."

The officer gave Joan a concerned look. "And were you here for the bad news, ma'am?"

"No," said Joan immediately. "Like I said, this isn't how it looks. Sherlock would never hurt me."

"If only the same could be said of you, Watson," he said a little hollowly. Sherlock was back to looking haunted.

The cop gave him a wary look. "I'm here about the Lexus," he said, gaze intent on Sherlock. "It was reported stolen last night, and now it's parked in front of your house. Care to comment, Mr. —"

"Holmes," said Sherlock calmly. "Sherlock Holmes. I required the vehicle because Ms. Watson here was in need of immediate assistance."

"So, you stole it?" said the officer disapprovingly.

"There was no time for niceties," said Sherlock uncaringly.

"I thought you said the car belonged to an acquaintance?" said Joan in distress.

"I am sure the owner of the Lexus and myself will become acquainted retrospectively, during the course of the court proceedings," said Sherlock casually.

"I could have gotten a cab, Sherlock," she groaned. "You didn't need to steal a car."

"When you receive a phone call from beyond the grave, then you are compelled to make haste to meet with said phantasm," said Sherlock, a muscle ticking along his jawline. "There was no time to be lost, in case… in case—"

Sherlock didn't finish his sentence, but Joan could see it in his face. He hadn't trusted that it was really her on the end of that phone call. He'd been afraid that his mania at losing her had conjured up a hallucination to torture him with losing her all over again. It was a crazy thought for a man so rooted in logic, but then that was always the flip side to Sherlock's greatness, the madness which was always lurking in the shadows.

Joan shook her head at the officer. "Look, we consult for the NYPD. Speak with Captain Thomas Gregson. He'll vouch for us. The taking of the car was a poor judgement call, but one I'm sure we can discuss with the owner and make our own private reparations."

"That's not down to me. I've just got to call it in."

"I know, do that and I'm sure we can fix this in no time," said Joan.

In the end it took well over an hour with various phone calls back and forth and the involvement of Gregson, plus Joan reporting her mugging, but ultimately, the officer finally left, happy in the knowledge he'd done his job. It had, however, taken a few more rounds of very pointed questions to reassure him that Sherlock was no threat to her though. Joan understood. Sherlock didn't always give out the most reassuring of personas on first meeting. In the end though, the officer continued on his way, and it was just the two of them again.

Joan was still on the sofa, and she moved to get off it without thinking.

Sherlock held up a warning hand to her. "No, Watson, the floor, your feet."

Joan sighed in exasperation. "Then could you do something about all the glass, please? I'd like to make myself a cup of tea." She hesitated. "If we still have any cups, that is."

"I will sweep the floor, and make your tea."

Joan leaned back against the sofa and watched Sherlock make short work of both. She absently rubbed her knee which was beginning to really throb now. Looking at her knee, Joan could see that her wound must involve broken skin because there was dried blood crusting the material of her pajama bottoms. A nice little reminder that yesterday really was as bad as she thought it had been. And not just for her it seemed. Joan knew they needed to talk about what happened here last night, but she was letting Sherlock have a moment to collect his thoughts through performing the menial tasks.

"Are you hurt?"

Joan looked up to see his gaze focused on the knee she was rubbing. She frowned, wrinkling her nose at her knee. "A bit. I haven't really looked yet."

Sherlock walked over and handed her the cup of tea she'd been longing for since waking up that morning.

"Thank you," she said gratefully.

He gave a short nod, acknowledging her thanks, but then his attention was focused on her knee. Sherlock crouched down in front of her, taking her leg in his hand.

Joan hissed a little in pain as he straightened out her leg and rested her foot on his own knee.

"Sorry," he murmured, pushing up the material of her pajama bottoms.

"I'm just a little stiff this morning. It'll pass."

Sherlock revealed the flesh of her knee for both of them to inspect, and it was indeed torn up pretty badly.

Joan felt his eyes on her and she met his worried gaze as she gave her professional opinion. "Flesh wound. It's nothing."

"How badly did this miscreant manhandle you?" Sherlock demanded to know. "Do you have other injuries?"

"Nothing as bad as the knee, which isn't that bad in the first place. I just fell pretty heavily when he pushed me to the ground."

"Did you hit your head?"

Joan hesitated. It had happened so fast and she was a little muddled about the order of things. "No… I don't think so."

Sherlock's hands were immediately in her hair, feeling her scalp for lumps and bumps. "You sound uncertain. You may have sustained a mild concussion in your attack."

"Ow!" Joan batted his hand away and rubbed the painful spot on the back of her head his wandering fingers had just discovered. "Don't poke at the sore bits… they're sore," she chastised him.

"There could be a slow subarachnoid hemorrhage." His eyes narrowed. "We should take you to hospital to have the appropriate testing performed."

Joan gave a shake of her head. "No, I don't want to go to hospital. It's just a bump."

"You are in no position to give that diagnosis."

"I am a doctor."

"A doctor with a possible concussion, or worse."

"No hospital, Sherlock. I just need to clean out my knee and maybe take a couple of painkillers."

"I'd like to register my unhappiness with this course of action," he said dourly. "And your generalized cavalier attitude to your own wellbeing."

"Duly noted." Joan sipped her cup of tea. "Just let me finish this and I'll fix my knee."

Sherlock stood up and walked over to the cupboard, removing the first aid kit they kept there. He walked back and crouched back down in front of her, resettling her foot on his knee so he had access to her wound once more.

"Seriously, Sherlock, I can do it."

He didn't look at her, his attention focused on her knee. "Drink your tea, Watson."

Joan sighed, too tired to really fight him on this. Besides, if his caring for her knee made Sherlock work through something of the helplessness he'd obviously been feeling in regard to her, that was probably a good thing. She sipped her tea, gritting her teeth periodically, as Sherlock cleaned out her wound, and rubbed in antiseptic cream before covering it with sticking plaster. "Thank you." Joan saw the way he was eyeing her. "And that's still a no on the hospital thing."

Sherlock gave a grunt of vague annoyance, but said nothing further as he cleaned up after himself with the first aid supplies.

Joan was contemplating another cup of tea and possibly some lunch before broaching the subject of last night, when Sherlock broke the silence between them.

"Everything," Sherlock announced abruptly, still concentrating on tidying up the last of used supplies.

She looked at him over the rim of her tea cup, about to take her last mouthful. "Excuse me?"

Sherlock still wasn't looking at her. "You asked me before, when I woke you this morning, what did I need you for?" His stricken gaze captured hers now. "Everything," said Sherlock hoarsely. "It appears I need you for everything, Watson. My equilibrium, my very existence requires you to function."

"No, it doesn't," said Joan compassionately, setting down her empty cup. "You just feel that way, but it's not true. You've gotten used to having me around. You're someone who likes his routines and I've become part of that routine." She reached out and took his hand, squeezing it. "I know you care about me, I know you'd miss me, but ultimately you're Sherlock Holmes and you always will be, whether I'm there or not."

Sherlock looked at her in genuine confusion. "Do you seriously not understand, Watson, even now?"

"I understand that you, more than most people, struggle with change. But just because something is difficult, doesn't mean you can't get through it, keep moving forward in life," she said earnestly. "And if the worst had happened last night, you would have found a way through it."

"Please, Watson, don't talk to me as if this was an afternoon TV movie special," he snapped at her. "Your words might apply to other people, to other partnerships, but not to us." Sherlock lifted her foot from his knee, but remained kneeling before her, expression intent. "There is no Sherlock Holmes without Joan Watson."

Joan's heart leapt a beat at that declaration, scared about what the kind of thinking might result in when it came to Sherlock's sobriety. "We're two different people, Sherlock. We can function independently. That's a good and healthy thing to be able to do."

"Yes, yes," he said impatiently, "independence, long have I beaten that drum. Indeed, I have fought my entire life to secure it – no ties, no obligations, just me, alone in this world, limiting my destruction on other people's lives. And I was happy with my state of being."

"Happy?" said Joan skeptically. "Seriously? Because the man I first met wasn't happy."

"Comfortably numb then," he countered. "Essentially the same thing."

"I'd argue the point on that."

"Of course you would, and that's where you started to scratch your way under my skin, inch by inch, ever deeper with your relentless counter-logic, until one day, I wake up to find that you are no longer an irritation, but have inserted yourself into my life in such a way as to become an integral part of my very system. One I can no longer function without, it seems."

"I don't want that kind of responsibility, Sherlock," said Joan unhappily. "And it's unfair of you to put that upon me."

"Unfair?" repeated Sherlock, his voice rising. "Let us talk about unfairness, shall we? Let's talk about how you walked out of that door last night, and boarded a plane and that plane exploded and took your life." He swallowed hard. "How you were torn out of my body in that instance, and I was left broken and bleeding, but I didn't have the release of death. Oh no, I just had to walk around, like some hollowed out corpse, and deal with the fact you were never coming home again!" He was shaking a little, face flushed with anger and a less easy to identify emotion.

"Those things didn't happen, Sherlock," said Joan swiftly. "I didn't get on that plane. I didn't die."

"158."

"What?"

"158 minutes passed between my turning on the TV and seeing the wreckage of your flight, and you calling me." His face was lined in real distress. "For 158 minutes I was in the purest form of agony at you having abandoned me to walk this wretched life alone, and I do not know how to forgive you for such a cruelty, Watson, I really don't." With that, Sherlock stood abruptly up and walked away from her. He shoved his hands into his pockets, his back to her.

Joan struggled her way off the couch, unable to sit still and listen to his accusations which came from a place of obviously deep pain. "I didn't abandon you, Sherlock. And this is death we're talking about here. I have no control over random acts of fate."

Sherlock spun around, expression furious at a logic she knew he understood, but was intent on rejecting right then. "If that is the case, then you had no right to make me need you so badly in the first place!" he practically roared at her. "You had no business crawling under my skin and burrowing into my body, so that I can no longer function without you, if you were only going to turn around and leave me one day!"

Joan put a hand to her mouth, finding it hard to listen to Sherlock's pain and fear. He never normally verbalized such things. "Sherlock," she said emotionally, "what you're talking about is the human experience. If there is no pain and loss, then there is no value to love and life. You can't have one without the other."

Suddenly he was crossing the room, and grabbing her face, taking it between his hands. "Then take these feelings back, Watson. I can't bear them." Sherlock's breathing was uneven, eyes wide as he pleaded with her. "Losing you hurts more than I can endure. It'd be inhuman of you to leave me like this. Please, end my suffering."

"This is just the human condition," she said softly. "We live, we love, we lose. There is nothing to take back."

"Then I don't want to be human anymore," he whispered, eyes suspiciously bright as his hands dropped away from her face in defeat. "I want to be that monster again, the one who doesn't feel, the one no one could form an attachment with." Sherlock reached out and squeezed her arms. "Please," he begged her, "undo what you have done to me. Release me, Watson. I cannot carry the burden of caring this much about another person. I am too… broken, too much of a coward," he rasped painfully.

Now it was Joan's turn to gently cup his face, studying its tormented countenance for a long moment. "Do you know what I thought when I first met you?" she asked him huskily.

His expression clouded over. "I shudder to give the matter any thought."

"I thought – this man, this man is going to change my life." She held his gaze steadily. "And I was right, you did."

"I have been a great burden on you, Watson," he said soberly. "Do you not wish your freedom from me also?"

Joan gave a soft smile, her hands dropping to his shoulders. "You're not always a walk in the park, Sherlock Holmes. In fact being with you can often feel like a full sprint through an erupting volcano, but when I'm with you I feel alive and like I'm doing something with my life. Something good and worthwhile." She looked up at him. "That's no small thing, and not something I'd want to give up because one day it might end. In fact, it makes me want to do the opposite, hang onto it more tightly because it might be gone one day."

Sherlock screwed up his face. "You do not seriously want me to hold onto you more tightly, Watson." He turned away, looking for space from her again. "My reactions last night… the way I felt, what I wanted to do upon seeing you standing on that street corner—"

Joan could see Sherlock had been overwhelmed by the force of his own emotions, and their strength was troubling him deeply. She knew the only way through those feelings was to face them. "What did you want to do, Sherlock?" Joan asked quietly.

He remained silent, shoulders stiff as he kept his back to her.

"Sherlock?" she pushed him. "You're not going to overwhelm me, I promise you. Just tell me. You need to get this out of your system."

"I wanted to peel off my skin and place you back under it where you belonged," he rasped painfully, still not facing her. "I wanted you back where you should be, back to being a part of me, a part which I'd never let go of again. I wanted to absorb you into my body, where I could keep you safe, and no longer share you with a world that would look to take you away from me." Sherlock turned around and stared at her defiantly. "And this man with his fevered, psychotic imaginings, this is the man you share a roof with." Sherlock drew in a ragged breath. "A man who stands over your bed, and watches you sleep because he needs to watch you take each new breath to reassure himself his madness hasn't conjured you out of his fevered desperation and that you are truly safe and sound." He took a step towards her, tone full of challenging rancor. "Do your declarations of unflappable equilibrium still stand on hearing the deranged desires of my brain, Watson? Is such a person someone you are happy to spend your time and energies on?"

"Do you think because you've never really been frightened of losing anyone before now, that you've somehow cornered the market on the fear of losing someone?" Joan threw back at him. "You don't think I have to fight the urge to lock you in a room every day to keep you safe from yourself and all the enemies you amass with frightening relentlessness?"

Sherlock looked taken aback by that information.

"Because I do," said Joan hotly. "And feeling like that doesn't make me deranged."

"Well, it does give me pause for thought that you want to imprison me," said Sherlock unevenly.

"I want you safe," she corrected him, "and in my life for as long as possible. And that's what you want from me. I picture a nice, secure room; you picture peel away skin. It's the same concept, filtered through different psyches, but it's the same." Joan took a step closer to him. "And it's not bad. It's normal, healthy even, to want to feel the need to go to extremes for people you care about."

"So, you're saying what I went through last night was normal and healthy?" asked Sherlock bitterly. "Well, if that is the case, I wish to be neither ever again."

Joan sighed heavily. "Life is like sobriety – not meant to be easy, but it should be meaningful."

"And what meaning should I have derived from having lost you last night?" he asked angrily. Sherlock waved his arms around. "What divine message was the Universe sending me with news of your brutal and untimely demise, eh? There you go, Sherlock, see that small sliver of happiness in your life, see that piece of contentment; well, I'm the Universe, and I'm going to take that tiny ray of hope and happiness, and set fire to it with four tons of jet fuel after smearing it across a runway at a hundred kilometers an hour. The Universe hates me, Watson, and that's why I can't have nice things!"

Joan put her hands on hips and shook her head at him. "That was needlessly graphic and insensitive, given that hundreds of people actually did die like that, only a few hours ago."

"And you were meant to one of their number," bit out Sherlock. "But the Universe cocked up, and you missed that flight."

"Or maybe the Universe gave me the worst cab driver in New York, so that I'd miss it? Why can't that be true?"

"Don't be unrealistically optimistic, Watson. It tries my patience beyond words."

"And your the-Universe-is-out-to-get-me rhetoric is beneath you, Sherlock," she snapped. "You don't even believe in that kind of thing."

"I believe that happiness is something that I was never destined to enjoy, and I resent very much your presence in my life making me forget that very pertinent fact!" said Sherlock loudly.

"I'm not apologizing to you because you've grown to care for me," she said in disbelief. "That's not my fault."

"Of course it's your fault," he insisted roundly. "It's certainly not mine!"

"So, you want to preempt any further heartbreak down the line by having me out of your life now, is that what I'm hearing?" she asked a little indignantly.

"I have yet to consider all the ways in which this issue between us maybe negated or at the very least controlled," said Sherlock, retreating behind that unyielding logic of his. "I cannot make a proper analysis of how best to neutralize this threat to both of our equilibriums as of yet. I need to consider the data more fully."

Joan called his bluff, knowing logic wasn't go offer any kind of answers. "Let me uncomplicate your life, Sherlock. We can end our partnership right now, and you can get back to never caring about anyone other than yourself. That was working so well for you before, I'm sure it'll just be peachy keen for you going forward." She turned to leave, to let him stew on the ridiculousness of thinking you could control emotions of not only yourself, but those around you. Suddenly she felt Sherlock's hand clamp around her wrist. He stalled her with that grip on her arm, turning her around to face him. Joan arched a challenging eyebrow at him. She looked down at the way he was still holding onto her wrist. "Do you mind? Apparently I have packing to do, and a new job to look for."

"I know what you're doing," he said tightly.

"And I know what you're doing," she responded evenly. "It's typical addict behavior. You're looking to kill pain."

Sherlock's eyes flashed his displeasure at her. "Don't reduce me to an illness, Watson."

"Then don't reduce our relationship to a problem which needs to be managed," she shot back at him. Joan held his gaze steadily, knowing this was going to be hard for Sherlock to hear, but it was time. "You love me, Sherlock, and caring like that makes you vulnerable to feeling a lot of things. You either have to decide if you can live with that, or slip back into your comfortably numb state. It's your decision to make."

Sherlock abruptly let go of her wrist, taking a step back and looking at her like her claiming he loved her was akin to accusing him of child molestation.

Joan wasn't surprised by his reaction. It was the first time the word love had been discussed between the two of them, but she wasn't backing down. "Looks like I'm packing," she said calmly. "I may need to borrow a suitcase." With that, Joan turned around and limped towards the staircase. She was halfway up the stairs when there was the sound of Sherlock's feet on the stairs below her.

"Stop!"

Joan did stop at the imperious command, but she didn't turn around.

"Your accusations of love on my behalf are entirely without merit," he blustered up to her from the foot of the stairs. "And I demand you retract them immediately!"

Joan was glad her back was to him, so she didn't have to hide the smile his words caused her. "No," she said simply, and just kept walking up the stairs.

"Stop!"

Joan stopped again on his order, but still refused to turn around. She knew Sherlock was still attempting to process this latest twist in their relationship.

"So, you imagine me in love with you, eh?" he demanded to know. "What else has your fevered imagination cooked up, hm? Are you imagining me going down on bended knee one day and proposing marriage? Has your brainwashed female mindset of hearts and flowers being the ultimate goal between a man and a woman so blinded you to the limitations of the man who stands before you? Can you imagine no other recourse than that I should fall madly in love with you and lose all reason?"

Joan turned around on her step, and then slowly walked back down to him, stopping when she was a couple of steps above him, so that they were on eye level. "Yes," she said with utter seriousness, "that's exactly what I pictured for us, Sherlock, from the first moment we met." Her tone didn't change in its evenness. "Take me now, big boy, I can't stand it any longer. I want you so badly."

Sherlock actually looked flustered, as he stood there, eyes skittering away from hers. "You're mocking me," he said stiffly.

"Now, why would I do that?"

Sherlock looked back at her, lips set in a thin line of impatience. "Because imagining me capable of your understanding of the word love is most definitely mocking me and my limitations."

"And what exactly is my understanding of love?"

"Your assertions of me loving you have me believing you are imagining that one day this—" He waved an agitated hand back and forth between them. "We will be an us."

"We are an us, Sherlock. That was pretty much been the reason behind your meltdown last night and into this morning, wasn't it? You realizing we're an us that you feel like you need to function."

"Yes, yes," he said in aggravation, "but we're not an _us_ us."

"You simply repeating words brings no further value to them."

"You know what I'm trying to say, Watson, don't be obtuse," he bit out. "You imagine me in love with you, whilst I know full well I am not capable of the love you believe me to have developed for you. This can only result in crushing disappointment for you when you realize your folly, then you will of course leave me."

"I'm perfectly content with how you love me, Sherlock. You don't have to change a thing about that or you."

"That is a bare-faced lie, Watson!" he gasped. "And we both know it. You have been working on changing me since our very first meeting."

"I want you to grow, Sherlock," she corrected him. "Not change who you are."

"Everybody wants me to change, to be less… irksome, to be more—" Sherlock waved his hands around distractedly. "Bland and generic. All so they can feel better about their dull and pointless lives."

"Leaving that ridiculously broad generalization to one side, I'm going to say this. Who you are at the most basic level, the man I see standing before me, he doesn't need to be anything other than what he is, because then I wouldn't love him half as much as I do."

"You-you love me?" said Sherlock in something akin to horror.

"For someone who prides himself on his deductive reasoning, I find it hard to believe you don't already know that," she said wryly. "Of course I love you, Sherlock. Why else would I still be here?"

"A borderline fanatical need to fix that which is irreparable broken?" he suggested.

"Well, obviously there is that," said Joan wryly. "But a more honest truth is that as much as I love you, I also like you."

That seemed to confuse him even more. "You… _like_ me?" Sherlock's gaze raked her face. "I fear my initial fears about you suffering a brain trauma are being proven to be correct. We should leave for the hospital immediately." He took her arm. "Are you experiencing a metallic taste in your mouth? Any issue with your balance?"

"Your go to reaction to someone telling you they like you is a brain hemorrhage? Seriously?" Joan shook her head at him. "Unbelievable."

"Not nearly as unbelievable as believing that this wreck standing before you could ever be in anyway likeable," he said sternly.

"I didn't say you were likeable, I said _I_ liked you. It's not the same thing." At seeing his confusion persist, Joan put her hands on his shoulders. "Sherlock, I know you're more comfortable painting yourself as the broken down monster in your life's narrative, but the truth is, you're not. There are people around you who have genuine affection for you, and I'm sorry if that makes you uncomfortable or makes you feel like they're asking more of you then you can give, but it's just a fact."

His shoulder's sagged. "This is a distressing turn of affairs."

"Yes, that's normally how most people react when they hear they're important to other people," said Joan dryly.

"I am not _most people_ , Watson," said Sherlock unhappily.

"Sit down," she instructed him.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, but then he was taking a seat on the stairs.

Joan followed suite, the two of them sitting side by side. "I'm sorry that you became so upset about the thought of me dying," she said softly. "I know how distressing that was for you, how that made you feel abandoned. I also understand how you felt resentful of me for making you feel all those things."

A muscle ticked in Sherlock's jaw as he stared directly ahead as she talked to him.

"But I'm not going to apologize for our relationship becoming important to both of us. What we have is so rare and precious, I'm not going to reduce it to pain management any more than I'm going to make it about sex."

Sherlock had the grace to look sheepish about that fact. "I am sorry, Watson." He cleared his throat. "I was being churlish in my accusations of a romantic fervor being the reason for your devotion to me."

Joan bit her inner cheek to stop from laughing. "Yes, you were."

Sherlock moved restlessly on the step. "It's just that you conjure up emotions in me—" He said the word as though it was a dirty one. "And I am unused to having to deal with such things."

"You're not telling me anything I don't know, Sherlock. But you know your ongoing recovery is about facing these things head on, and letting yourself feel things, so that you know you can be wounded, but still heal. That's important for everyone to know in this life, and particularly for any addict, no matter their method of painkilling."

Sherlock was back to regarding her seriously. "I understand your meaning, Watson, but I am not entirely sure that I would be able to find a way forward if I was to lose you from my life permanently."

She lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I don't think anyone can truly know something like that until it happens, and personally, I've kind of got my fingers crossed that it's not going to be an issue for me for a long time."

"A scientifically proven method of warding off the inevitable," he noted dryly.

She just smiled at that. "If it makes you feel any better, I think we can both agree that you're exponentially more likely to die before me."

Sherlock inclined his head. "That does make me feel better," he conceded, straight-faced.

Joan arched her eyebrows at him. "So, am I forgiven for the unforgivable, making you care about me?"

"It would be impossible to forgive such an atrocity, Watson," he said sternly. "How can you even ask me that?"

Her smile widened at his gruffness. "Alright, maybe not forgive, but find a way to live with it, perhaps?" Joan's expression became more serious. "Because I don't want to lose you from my life, any more than you clearly want to lose me from yours."

Sherlock studied her back, just as seriously. "You have become an incredible burden to me, Watson, just as I knew you would be. What I did not expect was the nature that burden would take, and how I find myself completely inconsolable at the thought of being without that encumbrance."

Joan half-smiled. "Well, you sure know how to sweet talk a girl, Mr. Holmes," she drawled.

Sherlock was looking at her intently. "Does it get easier? Having someone else in your life that you care about more than yourself?"

Joan thought about that for a moment. "No," she said truthfully.

"Ah," said Sherlock, clearly disappointed.

"But the more you invest, the more you get of everything, the pain, the worry, the frustration…" A slow smile spread across her lips. "The laughter, the love, the growing and learning. Being human has always been a double edged sword."

"One I would have happily fallen upon last night on hearing of your death," said Sherlock, a faraway look on his face.

Joan put her hand on his arm. "Sherlock, nobody gets out of this life alive, and knowing that, being able to go on that journey with someone who is important to you, who gives your life real meaning, well…" She shrugged. "That makes me pretty happy to think about."

Sherlock screwed up his face, as though he'd just smelled something rotten.

"Yes, Sherlock," she said indulgently, "you have the power to make someone happy. Just deal with it."

"This is new territory for me, Watson," he said unevenly. "I cannot promise further missteps."

"Just don't stand over my bed watching me sleep in the future. Everything else I can deal with."

He tilted his head and looked thoughtful. "I could possibly manage that, as long as you are no longer intent on scaring me half to death."

"Just say yes, and let's leave this little talk on a positive note, okay?" she suggested wryly.

"Very well, Watson, as you wish."

They sat there for a few moments in companionable silence before Joan sighed heavily. "The day is nearly half over, and I've got so much I still have to do. I need to cancel credit cards, call Vienna, organize a new driver's license, and have new house keys cut. Basically, prove that I exist again."

"You exist, Joan Watson, I am proof of that."

Joan looked at him for that comment. "And are you going to be okay with that? Having your feelings wrapped up in another person?"

"I suppose I'll have to be," he said huskily. "Because I can see no earthly way of undoing it now."

Joan gave a short nod of her head, seeing him slowly making peace with the concept. "Okay, good, that's good."

"That has yet to be seen, Watson."

"You'll get used to it," she predicted confidently. "The rest of humanity has."

"So, I am sentenced to join the great unwashed in their destiny, is that it?" he said a little morosely.

"Looks like," said Joan unsympathetically.

"If this all goes horribly wrong, I shall be blaming you." Sherlock looked at her intently. "You realize that, don't you?"

"I realized that two days after we first met," she said philosophically. "And I'm still here."

"You have a very poorly-defined sense of self-preservation, Watson," he noted. "You may want to address that in the near future."

Joan just smiled, knowing her life would be a lot less complicated and emotionally challenging without Sherlock in it, but knowing that wasn't what she wanted for her life. "Now then," she murmured, "where would be the fun in that?"

Sherlock stared at her profile for a long moment before staring ahead as well. "Indeed," he said, finally acquiescing to her point of view. "No fun at all."

The two of them sat there for a long time after their words ran out. Joan slowly felt the tension ebb from Sherlock's body as their conversation drifted over to other things, like the case from yesterday. Sherlock had been confronted with being forced to acknowledge a lot about their relationship, and he'd made his way through it, with a limited amount of carnage, their living room notwithstanding. The thought was a positive one for Joan.

It looked like today was going to be a good day.

 **A/N** **: Thank you all so much for reading. That was very sweet of you. I've got an idea for a one shot follow up for this story, involving a lot of Sherlock snark. If anyone is interested in reading it, let me know. Thanks again for reading. :D**


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